Fenêtres ouvertes
by LilyIsMilesAway
Summary: Enjolras has a new neighbour. Modern AU


**It's Inge's fault. It's always Inge's fault. She has too many great headcanons.**

**Title comes from a nice little Victor Hugo poem, that kind of fits, in a very, very twisted way.**

* * *

One of the disadvantages of living in the oldest part of a city was that sometimes, streets were as narrow as the mind of a conservative old white man. Enjolras never cared about it much. He was almost never home, and his only _vis-à-vis_ was an old lady with very ugly and very thick curtains. Except that the lady died and a new tenant came in around two weeks later.

He passed by her and a couple of his friends one morning, when she was moving in, and recognised Marius, one of Courfeyrac's friends, who occasionally came to the meetings. It still took him a moment to recognise her as the girl that sometimes haunted the Musain, and would have a drink with the guys once the meetings were over. But his knowledge of her existence didn't go as far as remembering her name.

Sadly, with the old lady, went also the quietness. Regularly, she would have friends over, sometimes some of the guys, particularly Grantaire or Marius. Music and laughter would prevent him from working on pamphlets or essays until early in the morning. But he learned to live with that. Especially since he was used to his friends' exuberance at the _café_. He had somehow developed some sort of immunity to it.

* * *

But one day, it wasn't laughter or songs that he heard, it was cries and screams. Some man, whose voice he had never heard before was insulting and threatening her in terms so violent that he came to his window, ready to run to the other side of the street and intervene if he had to.

Luckily, she managed to push the man away. He couldn't be exactly certain, but it involved something about a tip to the cops about some trafficking.

Anyway, the man left and the girl, once she was sure he had turned around the corner, went back up to her flat. The street quickly regained its calm, except for 80's rock music coming right from her wide-open windows. But he couldn't leave the window. He would argue that it was really because he was afraid the man would come back, with some back up. But he was really just mesmerised by the young woman now dancing and jumping on her bed in her underwear. It took him a few minutes to realise what he was doing. He was so ashamed that he turned off all the lights and went immediately to bed, even if he still had a whole speech to prepare.

* * *

For the next few days, he tried to avoid the proximity of the windows, but couldn't help but sneak a peak once or twice. To make sure she was OK. For some reason, he had gotten very protective of her. He couldn't explain it, and it annoyed him greatly. Luckily, she was either away or dressed. Time passed and he slowly forgot.

* * *

Around two weeks later, nothing much had happened and he had completely ceased to worry.

On a sunny Sunday morning, he sat at his kitchen table, close to the window, enjoying his newspaper, a coffee and the morning quietness, wearing nothing more than his briefs, after an invigorating jog and shower.

It was without taking into account his new neighbour, who was shamelessly enjoying the view, even if she had been partying until three in the morning. That he could tell. She waved at him, with a smile that would only mean she knew.

At this point, he was blocked, what should he do? Leaving would be an admission of guilt, and he was too proud for that. Staying and embracing it, was not his usual _modus operandi_.

* * *

The next week, he saw her at the café. He barely dared to look at her when she was looking straight at him, with the same mischievous smile. She knew, she knew everything.

It got worse when, one night, she started to undress looking straight at his window, knowing he was home (and working on the armchair he never used until now, the one next to the window). He couldn't say if his mind was playing tricks on him. He could swear she did it in a way that was more sensual that the very pragmatic let's-not-get-cold way he had seen her do. She would, luckily, always turn back at the last second, and leave him in the greatest need.

What he couldn't have missed either was that she was getting chubbier. As if she was, at last, eating enough. He had also noticed on the occasions when he had been close enough in the café that her usual grey-ish pasty skin was getting closer to a nice honey colour. The weather getting nicer and nicer as the summer came wasn't helping either.

This was not good.

* * *

He was now avoiding coming home until the latest hour of the night. Luckily, the proximity of the June exam session was a good excuse, and nobody would comment on it. But she was a night person and he couldn't always avoid her. And, at the end of the exam session, he had no more excuses.

During a sleepless night, still haunted by the memory of lacy black underwear, he decided to fight back, give her a taste of her own medicine. So, the next evening, he was ready; he sat at his window, as usual, with a book and when she showed up, sat nonchalantly on the edge, her phone to her ear, a cigarette in the other hand, not caring at all about the danger of sitting in such a position, he put back the book he was pretending to read and started, as slowly as he could to unbutton his shirt, throw it on the floor. At this point, she had hung up and was shamelessly staring at him.

He had planned to go further, and take his trousers off as well, but the appreciative glare was burning him. He quickly turned the lights off.

* * *

At the next meeting, she showed up five minutes early, even though she would usually wait for her friends at the bar. When he asked her what she was doing there, she answered with the straightest face. "My interest in politics has been… woken up. I'm curious to see what you guys have in your pants."

What followed was the longest speech he had ever had to do. He had to take his revenge.

Sadly not the same night; he was asleep in his armchair, when she got home after a night out with Grantaire.

The next day, however, she was home when he came back from Combeferre's. And he put his plan into action. Slowly removing his shirt, his belt, making sure she didn't miss a second of it.

What he didn't plan was the fact that she would answer; by letting fall her skirt (damn summer! Next, her top went away as quickly. Then, slowly, so slowly, she started to remove her bra, without, even a second, looking away.

She was still glaring at him when she let it all on the floor. And now, it was for very different reasons that he was afraid to go further and take his trousers off.

She made things a lot worse when her hand went down from her elbow to her belly button. Her brown skin, her well-rounded belly… She wasn't that pasty skinny girl anymore and it was so… appetising. He was dreaming with his eyes wide open, of the things he would do if it were his own hand.

She brought the last straw when she reached the hem of her knickers and carried on. What was he supposed to do, then? Except for losing his trousers and then, his briefs.

He didn't know how he got the courage to go all the way, but that night, he slept well. The next, it was harder, as he didn't dare to go close to the window again.

One step forward, two steps back.

* * *

Until one very hot night, he heard the bell, as he was trying to work on the pamphlet for the Amis' next rally. She was there, at the door, smiling at him, then at his half-opened shirt. He couldn't articulate a word.

She came in, without waiting for his invitation. "Do you have any sugar?" she asked with a laugh in her voice. He watched her walk, totally paralysed, as she was stripping off her clothes, on her way to the window. Once she had closed the blinds, she turned around and came back to him, dragging him to the armchair, tripping, as she was taking off his shirt and the rest of his clothes.

Oh, God. This woman would be the death of him!


End file.
